


shot a man in reno

by ChopLogic



Category: Fallout: New Vegas, Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Egregious Use of Song Lyrics as Titles, Enemies to Partners in Crime to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Extreme Violence Against Legionaries, Free Vegas Ending, Hanzo Shimada the Crimelord and Lore Friendly Companion, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slight Canon-Bending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-01-21 06:28:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12451531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChopLogic/pseuds/ChopLogic
Summary: The man in the blue scale suit fled across the desert.The one armed courier follows.(aka the awful FO;NV/Overwatch mashup I've been thinking about for a long time now)hmu ontumlr





	1. now i'm no longer alone

It takes a while for the courier to come to; squirming in the sand like a half dead snake and groaning low in his barrel chest  .  The two Los Muertos thugs bristle at his sides; Jessup’s knuckles going stark white under his lurid teal green tattoos gripping the shovel, McMurphy’s hand flutters to the butt of his pistol at his hip, a vibrant smear of fresh bruise red-purple as nerves get the better of him.

The man in the suit  simply  observes, dark blue scale pattern blurring into the night sky, golden hair tie blowing in the breeze.  Immaculate in the cold desert night, eyes like black ink surveying the shallow grave his hired help had dug, easy to roll the courier in when all  was said  and done.

The courier looks up at them, still dazed.  A rough beard frames his jaw, heavy lips parting in a snarl over crooked teeth, broken nose, freckles on olive skin, eyes shining like whiskey under the brim of his hat  . Rough hewn and feral, nothing like the man in the suit. He bites out a word,  probably  a cuss, and struggles in his bonds. One arm of scrap parts and the other scarred flesh and bone.

“There’s no use Courier, you already knows how this ends,” the man in the suit intones, gravitas in his words like he’s used to  being listened  to, his words taken as gospel. 

“Like hell!” He bellows, writhing like a man possessed. He stills when the chip glints in the pale night’s light, eclipsing the moon as the man in the suit holds it. Amber eyes flicker  minutely  as the chip rolls, knuckle to knuckle and edge to edge over the other man’s fingers. It flips to his thumb and he flick it high, spinning and glinting. The courier strains as it falls, and huffs when the man in the suit catches it again,  promptly  pocketing it. A livelihood in the palm of a man's hand.

"That's mine you sonovabitch," he spits, leaning up on his bound arms to level a better glare at the well-dressed thief. 

“Shame I wanted it then, you could of avoided this,” with his other hand, he dips into his suit and draws a handgun. Mean blue-black metal, grip of nightstalker scales. The courier's eyes go wide and in a breath a shot burrows through the courier’s hatband, a second  quickly  follows, digging through skin and skull beside its twin. He slumps into the dirt. 

Courier 6 dies snarling, staring at the man in the blue scale suit.

“Bury him,” he commands, still staring at those whiskey eyes that glare with fury even in death, trying to fool himself into believing hellfire doesn’t glow in them .

 

 

 

\- - ♡♤♢♧ - - 

 

 

 

Jesse McCree wakes up on a stiff bed feeling like that last round of shots celebrating his first piece of work in months was a mistake  .  His arm is off somewhere, the phantom limb offers no support as he tries and fails to sit up, landing back with a bitten off moan of absolute misery . At least he’s still wearing an undershirt, and underwear too for once in his life.

Where he is, he does not know; there’s the faint sound of something  softly  bubbling behind him on a greasy fire, dust motes float in the air and dance on Jesse’s breath, the beat up vigor tester on the other side of the room flashes a little marquee of lights every now and again, the desk opposite him hasn’t seen work in a while if the dust on the typewriter is anything to go by .

“Goodness, are you alright?,” a  lightly  accented feminine voice calls from around a corner somewhere, “Oh, never mind, I’m coming to help,” Jesse doesn’t heed the voice’s offer, sitting up again with the aide of his right arm . His vision swims, like his eyeballs are being tossed around like a ball in some made up children’s game. He slides heavy legs over the side of the cot, dusty floor meeting the toughened soles of his feet 

Whiskey brown eyes close for a moment, darkness is only soothing the rising sick in his chest before the night rushes up to greet him. _The Prospector Saloon, new work,package heavy in his pocket, the grinning skulls of Los Muertos winking out as they stepped under the bar lights, shouts, bottles breaking, gunshots_. A breath shudders out of McCree and brave fingers reach up to his face. _Trudy hollering, a crack of a bottle over the back of his head, a pale-lipped smile, hands on him, tie him up, dig the grave._ A rattling breath shakes free from his ribs, sick shivers sliding up his back.

_The moon heavy in the blue velvet sky, swollen and pale like a bite full of bleak venom, casting the scene in black and white, the man in the suit, grinning death on either side, ands pools of endless dark damnation in his eyes. One gunshot, two. _

There are bandages over his forehead, spongy under gentle probing, but sturdy underneath. There’s a subtle ridge, a pucker of scar tissue. He’d wager there’s a plate to cover the holes in his head now. It thumps in time with his heart, bullets still burrowed in his thoughts. He should be dead.

Is Jesse McCree dead?

He can't even tell yet.

“Sir?” The voice is close, too  suddenly  close. McCree swings  blindly  with a startled snarl.  There’s an exclamation that sounds  suspiciously  like _oop_ and the courier’s fist whiffs through air . His eyes slit open to glare at the speaker, trying to tense in a way that stills the tremors in his body.

A slim blonde woman is half crouched beneath where Jesse’s haymaker had swung, long limbs folded over her head to protect against another attack  . Jesse huffs and scrapes his fingers through his hair with a shaking hand. The lady chuckles  nervously  and straightens once more, smiling  softly. She’s pale and blonde,  probably  not an outdoorsy type, her eyes rove a little over Jesse’s face with wonder.

“You frightened me, I didn’t expect you to regain such a level of mobility so fast,” she clasped her hands together and gave a little shrug, “I  was worried  Victor had  just  dragged in a vegetable when he wheeled you in here,”

_What._

“What?” His voice was a wavering croak, tongue stiff and foreign in his mouth like dry leather, his throat was no better. Those shots  really  were a mistake.

“Goodness gracious!” Jesse barely kept himself from flinching at her volume as the doctor exclaimed again.  Well at least Jesse would wager she was the doctor, he doubted anyone else in Goodsprings had the know-how to raise the damn dead, if he was still in Goodsprings that is and not maybe _Purgatory_. “And your speech is back too, this is excellent progress,”

“What happened to me?” the more the doc spoke, the worse the bandages seemed to itch.  Daring fingers pressed against the gauze, harder this time, sending a throb of pain lancing through his skull. It hurt, but it pushed the nausea back with a different, more manageable kind that only threatened his empty stomach instead of his questionable existence. Cool hands took his wrist, drawing his hand away with some effort.

“I apologize, your sudden lucidity made me forget my manners,” the doctor took a steadying breath. “You  were shot, in the head, twice with a nine millimeter handgun and left for dead in a grave,” _No shit_ he wanted to shout.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Jesse groused instead, pushing himself up and off the cot. The doctor’s hands hovered along his shoulders and back on his bad side, hoping to catch him if he fell. As if, McCree was a head taller and twice as broad.

“Victor found you in the Goodsprings cemetery, he heard the gunshots before coming to investigate,” he  was led  like an old man through the recovery room; legs like lead and joints rusted straight, thighs quaking with every step and hips grinding in their sockets.

_Jesse decided then that Victor, whoever he was, was a coward. Jesse hated cowards._

"You've been unconscious for a month now," Jesse stopped, stock still as bewilderment played over his features. He looked to the doctor with a _Really?_ sort of raised brow. Her reply was a purse of lips and a chin-jut nod, _Really._

Eventually  they made it to a dim sitting room, holey drapes on the windows filtering the glare of the unforgiving sun  .  The doctor directed Jesse to a sofa where he collapsed with a huff, eyes settling in the hollow eye of the brahmin skull on the mantle. The doctor busied herself with snatching up a pillow and patting it some.

“Who’s Victor?”  The doctor stopped bustling around her patient for a moment, pillow stilling in her hands in an attempt to fluff it.

“He’s a Securitron, odd fellow, but amiable, dug you out of the dirt and carted you in,” the doctor offered McCree now more lumpy than flat pillow and the courier took it and set it behind him. “Thirsty?”

“Very,” McCree lifted his head up off the back of the sofa and made the mistake of nodding,  instantly  regretting it as it felt like his brain (or whatever  was left  ) sloshed around in his skull. She grimaced but  quickly  slipped away, leaving Jesse to his pain for a moment.  A glass  was pressed  into his hands, clear water sloshing inside as she took a seat in a worn armchair across from him.

“Thanks, uh,” he didn’t know the doctor’s name, a glance up through his lashes revealed the Doctor had come to the same realization, albeit a bit more  colourfully . A flush painted up her face from collar to wispy golden hairline.

.“Angela, Doctor Angela Zeigler,” her words stumbled out like a drunk from a bar. It was a little cute, Jesse decided not to tease and instead chuckled good  naturedly  and offered a smile.

“Jesse McCree, Mojave Express Courier,” Jesse leaned back, tilting his head  carefully  onto the couch back again.  Zeigler took a seat too, still watching Jesse breathe and blink and tilt his head up to sip his water like he was some sort of experiment beyond her wildest dreams.

“I’m still amazed at your recovery Mister McCree,” there’s a little bit of awe in her voice and the courier can’t help but preen.

“Just  Jesse is fine, and y’gotta be tougher than a deathclaw for my line of business,” he took another sip of water, trying to pace himself, “did Victor see the men who tried to put me down ?”

“If he did he didn’t inform me, I’m sure he’ll tell you as soon as he knows you’re up and about,”

_COWARD._ His mind helpfully supplied. 

McCree nodded and drained his glass, Reaching over himself to place the cup on a dark wood side table. He needed his arm back.

“You still have my effects Ang?” He wagged his stump to emphasize, “A man can’t be without both hands and all,” he smiled  politely.

“Of course, but are you sure you want them now?  You only  just  woke up,” the doc was trying to be sensible; a brain damaged victim of a would-be murder asking to have a two pound mess of metal strapped back onto his body  in an effort to  get back on the road was not the best course of action. But his ribs do ache without the weight of the leather straps and hs hip oddly light without his iron.

Jesse’s smile turned brittle, his eyes a little sharp. Jesse McCree was not a man to be denied.

“I’ll go fetch your effects,” Angela caves  quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> should I keep going or...?  
> cause I'm gonna ride this productivity train until it come to a screeching halt.


	2. when I woke up this morning all I, I had was gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wowie okay, didn't expect such a good turnout for a midnight posted half-crocked fic but I'm super wowed.  
> went back and spruced up the first chapter some, that'll teach me to post at midnight.
> 
> anyways, more of Jesse's no good very bad package delivery/garbage exposition, wild New Vegas hijinks coming soon. i'm trying to cut out as much needless fluff as possible cause let's be real, New Vegas had a tiny map, but sometimes there was just dick all around you and you wished there was enough programming to include a run function but noooope.
> 
> chapter title from [Muddy Waters - I Feel Like Going Home](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0EoDHWqPhbU)  
> previous chapter title from [Frank Sinatra - Blue Moon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GD6PreqIz6o)

Jesse decides pretty quickly after getting dressed, wolfing down some potato mash and gecko meat, and spending a few solid minutes grumbling about the two singed holes in his hat that the best place to smoke was Doc Zeigler’s front porch.

The cigarillo is a little bent, tastes a faintly like grave dirt too, but he had smoked worse. His bandages are fresh on his forehead, a shiny salve of something or other smeared along the healing scars underneath. The servos in his hand are a little roughed up, but still work enough to grasp the cigarillo and not snap it in half as he frees a smoke ring to a gust of wind.

The little indulgence gets tucked back into the corner of his mouth, flesh hand flexing a few times before settling on the butt of his gun. An entire month out of commission, unconscious mostly with a few moments of almost-waking, howling rage. Fed through a tube so Zeigler says, he doubts it. He feels thin in his body, unsure in his footing. Angela says with his current progress he should be back to work in no time, until then he gets to live as a specter of himself.

If it wasn’t for this fucking job.

 _Two black pools of liquid damnation look back in his mind’s eye, bottomless as they stare through him, boring holes in his head_. He grips his iron and draws her with a snarl.

Peacekeeper is heavy in his hand, familiar but not like she used to be. The spur on the butt still tinkles when he spins it with a hooked finger but holding her aloft, arm a long mean line, she wavers like she doubts she used to pop deathclaws like flies. Maybe it’s the Pipboy throwing off his balance, nice of Angela to part with such a fancy piece, but not worth the hassle if atrophied muscle was already going to throw off his aim.

The barrel shakes when she used to hold true.

He sighs and lets his aim fall, metal fingers squeezing cooly over his thinned bicep. An entire fucking month.

Peacekeeper rests in her holster again as Jesse works checks over his new arm console, at least the controls were on the left side of the device, easier for the jointed metal fingers to grasp the knobs and press the buttons. It has a sense of his overall heath, a dinky map that shows the lay of the land but none of it’s features, and a running tally on what he has in his pockets. Metal fingers rest over the plastic housing and relish the click of the scroll wheel, soon finding a display of radio stations to tune into.

He selects one and a soft bluesy swing feeds out of the tinny speaker.

“Well I’ll be!” a synthesized voice interrupts the music. The courier huffs a plume of cigarillo smoke and turns the radio off again, peering up against the midday sun to see the speaker. A protectron with a scuffed blue housing wheels its way up the incline to the doctor’s house, grinning cowboy face flickering on its dusty display.

“Victor I presume?” Jesse stands with a bit of struggle, cursing the weakness in his body. _An entire fucking month._

“You’d be right, courier. Doc must of given you a rundown of what-all happened,”

“Yeah, most of it anyways, I had a few qu-“

“You came up outta the ground like a bat outta hell when I came up to getcha, growling like a mean old coyote and looking twice as rough,” Victor chuckles, wheeling backwards and forwards a little as his face ripples as the screen flickers. Jesse gives him a dull glare.

“I was saying, a few questions,” He takes a drag of his cigarillo before drawing it from his lips and pinching the cherry end with the metal digits of his left hand.

“Ask away,” Victor speaks with his gripper claws when he talks, it’s a little unnerving.

“Three men were in the graveyard with me that night, did they call each other any recognizable names?” The cigarillo gets tucked into the chest pocket of his brown duster, Doc’s gonna pout when she sees he’s been scratching his bandages again but just being around this robot is making his skull throb.

“Not that I could pick up on, I was a ways down the hill,” Victor’s display flickered into a pout for a moment then back to the same wide-eyed cartoon cowboy, “Trudy might know, they did drag you out of there beforehand, she might of heard something,”

“Thanks,” Jesse tips his hat, hatband catching on his bandages before stepping past the securitron. There was an uneasy sway in his walk, legs learning how to carry him along all over again. Angela had kept him as fit as she could while he was out; daily stretching routines, stimpack shots for his thighs and back, rolling him gently onto his sides every now and again. There’s only so much you could do for a dead man however, McCree had sweat through his shirt and was panting hard by the time he leaned up against one of the posts that held up the Prospector Saloon’s awning.

“Aint faring too well there, are you alright?” A man with greying black hair sat in a rocking chair, thin spectacles perched on his nose. He was hunched over, spine a harsh curve from age, and broad enough that Jesse wondered how he got himself in the chair in the first place.

“I was shot,” Jesse sighed, pushing himself up as best he can and tugging his long duster back into place.

“Oh! You must be the courier Angela was minding, glad to see you up and about,” He clasped two paw-like hands together, beaming widely, “My name is Winston, pleasure to meet you,”

“Name’s Jesse McCree, and likewise,” The shade was a welcome change from the sun’s heat as he stepped up, tugging the serape he had wrapped over his shoulders away from his throat. “I’m on my way out really, just stopping in for any last information I can get before I make my way back to my boss to explain why the package was late,” Lindholm was gonna kill him all over again if he showed up empty handed.

“Ah, you’d best ask Trudy, I heard the ruckus and poked my head in but they came and left through the back door, Sorry McCree,” another dead end, the courier pursed his lips and laid a hand on the door.

“Thanks anyways,”

  

\- - ♡♤♢♧ - -

 

Trudy only knew a little herself; the leader of the operation was a well-dressed gentleman in a blue scale-patterned suit jacket, the thugs were members of the Los Muertos gang. They had pulled guns and kept them trained on the other bar patrons as they had subdued Jesse, threatening more violence if anyone followed them. The man in the suit had left a tip for Trudy for her troubles.

Jesse had a feeling he was playing against a Vegas man. Clean and sharply dressed, well moneyed and colder than a Mojave night. Jesse had never been to New Vegas, Freeside for sure, but never stepped foot in the city of vice and sin. Must of taken some planning to make it all the way out to intercept him, or enough caps to pave the 15 from Camp McCarran to the gates of New Vegas.

Either wits or money, and his would-be murderer had both.

He dipped a hand into his pocket, feeling the wavy edges of the 75 caps he had received for fixing her radio, happily the only other casualty from that night. Just enough for a few decent meals, maybe a few crappy ones if he needed more ammo, maybe just a snack if he needed to patch himself up along the way.

He shook his head and resumed his slow march up the hill to the bone orchard, breath panting out as his thighs started burning again. Every step hurt and stopping to rest only made starting again harder, but there was no way to get better at walking than, well, walking. He would worry more about caps when he wasn’t so preoccupied with trying to walk like a normal person again. _Check the graveyard_ was all very well and good to say so long as the person you were telling has a functional pair of legs, _check the graveyard my ass_.

The water tower cast a swathe of shade over the dry ground and few graves, Jesse propped himself up with the post of a grave’s fence as he surveyed the tombstones and lonely broc flower sprouting by the fence. Not a bad place to lay one’s bones, but only when the time was right.

“Come on Jesse,” he hummed, trying to cajole his aching legs into motion again, “Gotta take a look at the grave,” He stumbled over, tripping as his calf spasmed. With a shout he went down, hands scuffing in the sandy dirt. It felt like a knife had sliced him open, hot and cruel down the back of his calf right underneath where his chaps buckled.

“ _Putaa_ ,” he groaned the cuss, pushing himself up on weak arms and rolling over, flexing his ankle as much as the combined cramp and cowboy boots would allow. It passed in a minute, leaving Jesse still sprawled and now a little dustier on the cemetery ground. _I must be dead and this is hell_ , he muses, _livin’ was never this cruel before._

He sits up with an _oof_ , feeling his weakened abdomen complain at the motion. _What was that thing boss always says? Life’s a bitch then you die?_ Jesse would like to make an amendment; _First you die and life’s an even bigger bitch._

The grave’s skewed and shallow, crooked and cramped. There’s a few cigarette butts lying around too like the man in the suit was standing around and waiting for the hired muscle to finish Jesse’s grave. What a prick. He picks one up that’s not burnt to a stub, metal claw fingers gently pinching it and raising it to his nose. It smells sharp, not so mellow as the tobacco that McCree rolls in his cigarillos, and clean like the person who rolled it knew what they were doing and not some bored caravaneer licking the paper and rolling it as a dust cloud blows through.

He pockets it, surveying the grave one last time, scuffing the sole of his boot over the few dark stains that have dripped into the dirt, and turning to leave. He makes it halfway down the hill when his other calf locks up, sending him rolling down the rest of the rocky way to the bottom.

The courier comes to a stop, teeth grit and a flurry of curses waiting on his tongue when his pipboy clicks on.

 _Like the fella once said,_ a voice croons from the speaker, _Aint that a kick in the head?_

 

 

\- - ♡♤♢♧ - -

 

 

A faded sign with two arrows loomed in front of him; to the north New Vegas, to the west Primm. He could just make out the faint tower of the Lucky 38 in the distance. He should have been there a month ago, chip delivered and his pockets lined with caps.

He sighed, busying himself with the pipboy’s radio as he turned right to head to Primm.

“Good afternoon to all my lovely listeners, this is Sombra for New Vegas radio and I’m so very glad you could make it to the show today,” a woman’s voice purred from the speaker, “now something new I picked up recently, a little bit of walking blues, dedicated to the couriers of Mojave,”

Tinny guitar rattled from the speaker, bringing a smile to Jesse’s lips. He set his pace to it as best he could. The going was slow, his duster coat felt heavy on his back, serape stifling, sling bag digging into his shoulder, arm a useless dead weight but the music brought him company.

Jesse veered off the road as the broken rollercoaster of the Bison Steve loomed ahead, sweat sticking his shirt to his chest and knees trembling with over exertion. He took a greedy swig from his canteen as his radio cut to Sombra again.

“Tensions are on the rise in New Vegas; weeks of minor disputes between The Shimadas of the Tops and the Omerta family that runs Gomorrah came to a head when the Omertas threatened to release evidence of dirty play from the Shimadas, their statement for now is that Genji Shimada was no good at keeping his mouth or his pants closed, I’ll keep all my ears open for more but now back to the music,” A jazz swing picked up after Sombra, leaving Jesse with his thoughts again.

 

 

\- - ♡♤♢♧ - -

 

 

The sun was on its way down as Jesse approached the Vikki and Vance Casino, windows boarded and street empty save for a lone figure lounging against the front wall of the hotel.

The courier ducked out of sight as best he could, shuffling along in a crouch that was hell on his legs, Peacekeeper drawn just in case. As he neared, the figure turned, rifle slung over his back and arms shuffling in front of his body. The night was quiet enough to hear the thug sigh.

 _Gross. Gross gross. Gross._ Jesse wrinkled his nose. His eye caught the scuffed letters on the back of the man, NCRCF, an escaped convict running around with a gun. Well that just won’t do. He stood and took his stance, both hands wrapped around the butt to keep her steady. One shot was all he needed.

He fired and the shot went wide, burying itself just past the convict’s left ear. The thug turned partways, a bewildered look in his eyes as a second shot struck him in the chest followed soon by a third. One shot would be all he needed if he wasn’t as weak as a newborn Brahmin. Peacekeeper was jammed back into her holster and the courier propped himself up against the wall to rest.

_Stupid fucking chip, stupid fucking grave, stupid fucking man in the suit._

Someone was bound to come and investigate the gunshots, Jesse didn’t want to stick around to find out if they were friendly or not. As quick as he could he rounded the casino and slipped through the door. He was greeted buy the sounds of chugging turrets and their soft little chime when they had found a target.

“Torbjorn you better turn your guns off before they give me some serious lead poisoning,” Jesse was quick to holler, hands rising in surrender.

“Jesse? Is that you?” The gruff voice of the Mojave Express manager cut through the noise, soon followed by heavy footsteps and two clangs that seemed to deactivate the turrets.

“In the flesh,” Jesse turned with a grin. Torb looked much the same; bald head, bushy beard, eyepatch over his right eye and hammer grasped in his grubby hand.

“Payment never got through for your parcel, I thought something got you on the way to Vegas,” he motioned with the mean hook for a left hand, ushering the courier further in before reactivating the turrets.

“Close, not something but someone,” The casino was quiet, townsfolk and a few of Torb’s kids milling about, tense with hands on their various pieces like they might need to fight for their lives at any moment. Primm Slim is still wearing that hat Jesse had put on it as a joke, clanking about as it walks around the infamous death car. 

“Someone? McCree what happened?”

“Got killed, didn’t stick, and some rich prick from Vegas stole my cargo,” Jesse sniffed, turning this way and that to figure out where the sweet smell of food was coming from. “Did June make that radscorp casserole again? I could eat a deathclaw I’m so hungry,”

“Woah woah, killed? As in dead? And you just got better?” Lindholm gaped at him, Jesse only shrugged.

“Wasn’t my time I guess,” Jesse staggers to a wall, leaning up against it as he walks, “Mind if I use your washroom?” Torbjorn is still dumbstruck at how his sixth courier has merely shrugged off the reaper; Jesse takes it as a no. The mirrors in the bathroom are dingy but they’ll do well enough, Jesse’s hat comes off to reveal some horrific hat hair and bandages damp with sweat and greyed with dirt.

He unwinds the bandage slowly, folding it in his hand as it comes off his head, might be useful down the line. The scars are mottled, pale where Angela had cut him open and sewn him closed and dark where death had tried to take him. Jesse isn’t a vain man, but there’s something that keeps him staring, looking into the smudged glass as if he could solve the world’s mysteries if he just searched the whorls of grime and ripples of age long enough.

“Hey Lindholm,” He drew back, eyes not breaking from his own in the mirror as he called, “Pull up the order file wouldja? I have a thief to catch,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am looking for a beta reader for his fic, if you're interested in scrubby half baked crossover content, hmu?
> 
> talk to me about my bad ideas over on [tumlr](http://dogfetus.tumblr.com/)


	3. was blue as a robin's egg and brown as a hog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from [Tom Waits - Gun Street Girl](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l4XZWZ91kfc)  
> and forgot to mention work title is from [Johnny Cash - Folsom Prison Blues](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bDktBZzQIiU)
> 
> strong warning for a kinda fucked up dream in the middle bit that results in what could be read as a panic attack? also some gore and a brief description of a guy getting pistol whipped to death towards the end.

The courier sprawls on a beat up chaise lounge in the back of the casino, papers scattered about him and a half-eaten bowl of June’s casserole balanced on his chest. The documents he leaves through all say the same thing; the Mojave Express courier service had been hired out to deliver seven items to New Vegas, namely Mr. House’s doorstep. Every paper declared that well enough.

A chess piece was entrusted to Sue the ghoul (Older than dirt, played guitar, owned a truly fanciful number of hats), a domino to Van Damme (weird as a bag of snakes, pale ghost eyes, smiles a bit too much to be a good thing), a poker card for Finch (scruffy ball of energy, picks fights with meaner folk, can’t seem to get his words out right), and so on.

Plenty of decoys, all delivered without a hitch.

He huffed, letting his arm flop off to the side, spilling more pages onto the dirty floor. No more hints here, just the same nagging feeling that Vegas would be his next stop. The casserole was cold now, still he shoveled a few bites down and chewed, cooked in poison tingling across his tongue.

 _Shimadas accused of dirty play_ , Jesse scrunched his nose at the thought, _weeks of disputes_.

He had only been out for a month, and a man like his would-be murderer would surely leave rumors in his wake no matter where he went. It all fell in neatly, but Jesse was still unsure, he needed hard facts and that meant sniffing out his murderer's trail. Couriers didn’t just deliver mail, the best ones tended to gossip too; finding out where there had been honest sightings of the well-dressed thief rather than hearsay that had blown in with the caravans was going to be tricky.

Still, what would a high roller want with some dinky silver chip? Sure it was shiny, but no sensible person went around murdering people for spiffy bits of scrap. What could be so important about that poker chip that Mr. House needed decoys? Was the man in the suit carrying out orders for House like some sorta test of dedication? The questions kept stacking up with no answers to cut them down. 

He sighed, brow furrowing.

All this hypothesizing was making his head throb again. Maybe Zeigler didn’t take the bullets out after all, just left the warped lead slugs in his head like a sort of momento.

Jesse rubbed a hand down his face, metal fingers clicking against the bowl as he lifted it off his chest and set it on the floor. He needed to rest, let his mind unwind, and next thing in the morning he would set out for Vegas.

McCree pulled his serape from his shoulders and draped it over his torso, then pulled his hat off just enough to then position it over his eyes. Sleep overtook him quickly, plunging the courier into endless black.

  

\- - ♡♤♢♧ - -

 

It was Genji in the grave this time, staring up at him with bright amber eyes from a shallow, crooked grave. Two bullet holes wept red on his brow, matching the blooms of crimson that flourished over his shirt and slacks. He had put _them_ there, put _him there_.

The elder Shimada could only stare, Stormbreaker gripped hard enough to hurt in his hand.

A metallic groan made him look up with a start, the siding of the Goodspring water tower bowing out with pressure before cracking apart like thunder in a desert storm.

Inky black swept down from the tower, flowing like smoke but heavy like the pounding water that fell from Hoover dam. He couldn’t breathe; darkness enveloped him and stole his air, dragging him down with hands and claws. Nothingness filled his mouth and nose, stealing his sight, all he could sense was the claws that sunk into his flesh, the hands that grasped and tore.

“ **Got somethin' o'mine you sunovabitch** ,” a voice of gore and grit murmured in his ear, a rasp of a dead man back from his crooked grave and rolling low enough to feel it reverberate against his spine. Mismatched hands of metal and scars crossed his body, holding him down in the black damnation.

He woke with a start, covers thrown off his body. His breath was too loud in the spacious room, drawing the darkness closer in tall shapes that made him cower. A hand gripped the soft leather pouch around his neck, feeling the chip hidden away inside. As long as he had this, nothing was done in vain. 

A rough rattling breath fell from his lips, hands combing into his dark hair that greyed at the temples. Drawing himself up into a ball in the middle of his empty bed, the elder Shimada knew that sleep would not find him again tonight.

  

\- - ♡♤♢♧ - -

 

It’s all very well and good to turn in for the night and to get as comfy as once can on a couple-hundred year old chaise lounge, but hooligans armed with dynamite and poor outfits tend to overrule those decisions.

McCree it startled awake with the sound of Torbjorn’s turrets chugging away, booming in the still casino as empty shells play a scattao clatter over the tiles.

The pipboy’s clock displays 4:08 am in cheery amber when his bleary eyes consult the screen. Either far too late or way too early depending on which end you look at it, but the courier is awake now and might as well check on the ruckus.

With Peacekeeper drawn and accessories left behind, he hobbles as quietly as he could to the doorway, thighs achy and knees stiff. The turrets have drooped into standby again, beyond the bullet riddled car that sits in the middle of the casino Jesse can just make out blood and bullet holes decorating the door. Primm Slim is slumped over in a corner, dim and deactivated for the night. Some help the hat-wearing protectron is of all times.

He creeps up behind the car’s podium, edging around it to take a better look. Three convicts are sprawled by the entrance, riddled with holes. Guess someone finally took note of the missing guard Jesse had dealt with earlier.

“Six?” a soft voice reaches his ears, a quick look shows Bridgette peeking out from behind a door, eyes wide and fearful.

“Ain’t safe out here sugarplum, you go on back to bed and let uncle Jesse deal with this,” She nods, disappearing in a flash of dark hair back behind the door. Poor thing, only eleven and already dealing with raiders, then again, Jesse had been dealing with raiders from conception and he turned out fine.

Fine-ish.

Whatever.

With care, he makes his way to the turret’s firing line, one step further and hopefully he wont’ be blasted to bits like the other men. His boot lifts, hovering over the line into no man’s land.

“McCree what are you doing?” A lower voice hisses, Torbjorn glares from behind another half closed door, beard braided and eye patch upside-down, “Let me deactivate them unless you feel like you need a good aerating,” the boot is quickly retracted as the shorter man staggers out, still sleep drunk.

Two clangs later, Jesse steps past the deactivated turrets, picking over the bodies.

“Didn’t you have a sheriff to deal with the rabble? Deputy maybe?” There isn’t much good on the convicts, some dynamite, one rough looking varmint rifle, and a couple NCR dollars that Jesse’s quick to pocket.

“Who, Beagle?” Torbjorn snorts, “Couldn’t hurt a bloatfly, and the powder gangers went and took him prisoner a couple days ago, ransoming him as if we would pool our caps to get that coward back, and McBain is dead by-the-by,” Jesse rolled his eyes; no duh he must be dead, tough bastard would of been prowling the streets if so much as an armless gecko waddled into town.

“Powder gangers?” he asks instead.

“The convicts from the correctional facility a little ways off, makes you wonder who was the clever idiot of give thugs blasting caps,” Jesse nods, peeling a coat off one of the gang members. It isn’t in too bad shape, couple holes through the back but in the dark no one could tell unless they had downed some cateye. Peacemaker rests in her holster once more as he slips it on, folding the cuff above his pipboy.

“Gimmie a bit here, I’ll sort out your gangster problem,” there were enough bullets on his belt to finish a few thugs, and who knows what they had on them.

“Jesse it’s the middle of the night!” Torb groaned, “It can wait until tomorrow morning, I was going to ask you then anyways,”

“Well I’m up now, might as well start the day with some target practice,” the courier grinned, black metal hand splaying on the shot-up door, “I’ll be back before breakfast,” Jesse slipped partway out the door before doubling back with a grin. "Slim still has those upgrades ya game him right?" 

Torbjorn's beard shifted in a way that could only mean he was smiling. He nodded.

"Good, get him to stand outside and keep watch," 

  

\- - ♡♤♢♧ - -

 

He lit a cigarillo as he limped out of the Bison Steve hotel, Deputy Beagle following close behind.

“Nice shooting in there,” Beagle smiles quickly, the expression only there for a moment. He doesn’t mean it, Jesse’s shots were all over the place, but it’s better than hearing the truth.

“Mmh,” that doesn’t mean hearing a lie is leagues better than the truth, just slightly, “You get into the Vikki and Vance, I’ll catch you up once I’ve sprung Meyers,” Smoke curls from Jesse’s lips, cherry end flaring, “Don’t you even think of sneaking off, I’ve got questions and you promised me answers, y’hear?”

Beagle nods quickly and slinks off, leaving Jesse to finish his smoke. The hotel was a shit show, but not the worst gunfight he ahd even been in; every shot was that much closer, his arm that much stronger. Another week of walking and target practice and the man in the suit wouldn’t stand a chance.

Again, he snuffs the cherry end with metal fingers and pockets the stub, tugging the strap at his shoulder until a worn varmint rifle settles in his grasp. It had taken a few convicts to replace all the most beat-up parts, but at least this rifle felt sturdy enough to shoot.

The jail was just northeast of Primm, a quick walk as the sun dragged itself up into the sky. The knob clicked softly as he turned on the radio. The last haunting notes of Johnny Guitar warbled out of the speaker, followed soon by Sombra’s voice.

“Early morning to all you folks rising with the sun, or maybe just realizing you’ve pissed away another night on whatever all you do,” Jesse chuckled, Sombra made good company, “Breaking news today, Quarry Junction by the long fifteen has been taken over by Deathclaws, miners in the nearby town of Sloan are pretty pissed, but what can you do? Axe pick them to death? Anyways, unless you have a death wish, find yourself an alternate route if you’re stuck anywhere south of the fabulous New Vegas,” she clicked off, a beat of silence, then the opening saw of shrill fiddles sprung from the pip-boy.

_Wiiildcat Kelly, looking might pale, was standin by the sherrif’s siiide..._

Jesse limped along, mouthing the lyrics. With care he stepped over the ruined fence and scaled down the rocky terrain that bordered Primm, breath coming in thin plumes as the night chill started to fade.

_And when that sheriff said I’m sendin you to jail, Wildcat raised his head and criiied..._

Roy Rogers drawled, pale fingers of sunlight cutting lines in the sand as dawn turned the sky a rosy pink. Up ahead a few powder gangers clambered down the side of a hill and making a beeline to intercept the courier in disguise.

“Whaddafuck happen’d?” A shirtless balding convict hollered, a little far off to speak at a sensible volume. Jesse pursed his lips for a moment, thinking quick as he walked up to the gangsters.

“Some yahoo went n’shot up everyone in the Steve, got the pissbaby deputy out,” Jesse barked back, matching the ganster’s tone. “I played dead n’ was coming to warn y’all, they’re holed up in the Vikki and Vance with guns trained on the door, don’t go in just wait up until we can find another way in,” None of them suspected a thing, that’s what you get when you break the law and aren’t smart enough to run.

“Alwright,” the balding man ducked his head in a nod, “Wait ‘em out, got it,” the gaggle of gangsters trotted off towards Primm. Give a courier a stolen coat and he could become anyone, he chuckled and shook his head, making his way to the foot of a hilly ridge.

_Oh give me land lots of laahaand, under starry skies, don’t fence me in.._

The climb felt easier than the trudge up to Goodspring’s cemetery the day previous, real food and plenty of exercise building him back up. He still huffed and groaned by the time he reached the tip of the ridge, looking down into the shallow valley to see that squat correctional facility hunched in the middle of the flat land.

_Let me riiide through the wiiild open county that I love, dooon’t fence me in.._

Six towers with swiveling lights, all stationary now, and one guard in a bulletproof vest loitering at the door seems like all the other powder gangers had either gone elsewhere or were lying dead in the bison Steve. Should be easy pickings. 

_Let me be by myself in the evenin’ breeze, listenin to the murmur of th’cottonwood trees.._

With careful steps he navigated across the ridge top, glancing at the rising sun. If he didn’t get into position quick enough the sun would light him up, an easy target for the guard in the valley. 

“Fuck, m'fuck,” pebbles skittered down the hill from his hurried steps, tripping his footing and landing his shin against a rock, “Brahmin shit!” He cursed, quickly slapping a hand over his mouth.

A glance to the valley showed the guard leaning against a wall, hand to his face. He still hadn’t caught sight of McCree.

The courier settled down on a flat top rock, setting up his varmint rifle on another rock in a sort of sniper’s rest.

The rifle wasn’t powerful enough to kill a man from this far, but a lot could be said about camping out. As an afterthought, he pulled the blue jacket off and wedged it under his body, tan shirt providing a little cover against the other sandy brown rocks.

_Send me off forever, but I ask’ya please.._

Lining up the shot wasn’t easy without a scope, but then again he wasn’t aiming anywhere that needed precision yet. The stock pressed against his shoulder, head leaning down until the stock barely brushed his cheek, centering the irons sights.

_Dooon't fence me in.._

Squeeze.

A shot exploded in the dirt, then another closer to the guard’s feet. Down the sights the gangster pushed off the wall and drew his gun, starting forward and turning around, trying to catch sight of his unseen assailant.

“Come on that’s it, just a little closer,”

_Just turn me loose.._

The powder ganger took a few cautious steps forward, bringing him ever closer. A grin split over Jesse’s lips, beard brushing against the stock as he lined up a second shot.

_Lemme straddle my ol’ saddle underneath the western skiiies.._

Two steps more, then one.

Squeeze.

The guard went down with a jet of red gushing from his throat. The courier kept his position, waiting for return fire, Roy Rogers still singing away.

_On my cayuse, lemme wander over yonder till I see the mountains riiise.._

No shouts, no voices, time for the next part. As Jesse picked up his effects he started to holler as loud as he could.

_I wanna ride to the ridge where the west commences, n’gaze at the moon till I lose my senses.._

“SONOVABITCH, ARGH!!” hefting the rifle in his metal hand he shot wide into the air, “IT’S COMING, AAH!” A few more shots before he hastily tossed his convict’s jacket back on and turned his radio off. Climbing down was a bit trickier, pausing every now and again to scream and shoot and generally be a nuisance. By the time he got to the ground he was out of breath and everything from the waist down ached, but that is the cost of hosting a one-man radio play of a brutal shoot-out.

McCree dusted himself off one last time, composing himself, then throw himself bodily against the door.

“FUCK IT’S RIGHT BEHIND ME OPEN UP, OPEN THE FUCK UP,” the door was yanked out of the way, Jesse staggered through and pressed up against the wall, knees knocking together and panting like a hot coyote.

The room was dark and dingy, four convicts spread around the room with one more at the door. Peacekeeper had plenty to go around if things went sour.

“Th'fuck happened out there? Some guys went out to try and take the Vikki ‘n’ Vance and you come back hollering like a gecko bit yer balls off,”

“They sent out a p-protectron, it’s got laser guns for arms and it ripped apart the o-other guys,” He chattered his teeth and glanced at the door warily, imagining Primm Slim the tourguide kicking in the door with his custom cowboy boot feet. It nearly broke his act. “They’re all d-dead! I hid and it started comin’ after me, I think I lost it though,”

The other gangsters seemed to buy it, save for one wearing a black cowboy hat. Must be Meyers.

“Well fuck,” a gangster with a close crop of dark hair huffed, “How are we supposed to kill a fuckin’ robot?”

“We have dynamite, throw enough at it and it’ll go down,” another convict grinned wolfishly, “Just have to play smart and throw from cover,” soon enough the four other convicts are crowding around a crate of dynamite and filling bandoliers by the fistful. All except Meyers.

He glared at the disguised courier, taking note of his chaps and tan shirt, the black metal of his left hand. The ex-sheriff smelled a rat.

“What if this is a setup,” First words he spoke and they blew Jesse’s cover clean off. The convicts froze, dynamite in their hands and fixed Jesse with murderous glares.

“Yea! How do we know you ain’t with the en-cee-arr,” A powder ganger with a choppy mowhawk sneered, taking a threatening step forward.

“Wait now hold on, y’all know me, I’m tellin’ the truth here!”

“Oh yeah? What am I in for then?” Mohawk took another step forward, dynamite in one hand and knife drawn in the other. The room was tense, Meyer’s staring holes through Jesse’s cover, Mohawk waiting impatiently for his answer. Jesse drew a breath.

“For bringing dynamite to a gunfight, y’ugly bitch,” In a flash Peacekeeper was out, trained between Mowhawk’s eyes. The shot made neat hole in the gangster’s brow, the courier could see the three other stunned convicts clean through his head.

And then something strange happened. The world tinted amber orange, time slowing to a crawl. Jesse heard shouts, but slow and warped like rotted holotape playback. As the first convict fell, Peacekeeper leveled at the other gangsters, squeezing out three perfect shots that caught them all in the head, necks snapping back slow as their bodies went slack.

Then suddenly there was silence and gunsmoke, the hot iron tang of blood in the air.

“Sheriff Meyers, if yer done poking holes in my rescue operation, I have a job offer for you,” Jesse looked sidelong at the stunned convict as he jammed Peacekeeper back into her holster. There was a beat of silence.

“Who are you?” The sheriff-to-be’s voice wavered a little, wary of the disguised courier; Jesse paid his tone no mind and simply stepped closer to his table. There was an unopened sarsaparilla on it and he had full intent to drink it.

“Just a mailman,” He grinned, reaching for the bottle just as the heavy door behind him groaned open again.

“I leave for a day to find that caravan bitch Ringo and I come back to this?” A dark skinned powder ganger stepped in; brows furrowed and mean looking revolver in hand. He stopped at the sight of Jesse and Meyers, the only two left alive in the room.

 Peacekeeper was out again in the blink of an eye, leveled with the newcomer’s own piece.

“If I were you son, I’d leave right about now,” Meyers intoned. Finally the first useful thing he's said this morning.

“Shut up, who the fuck are you?” He spat, propping his weapon with both hands.

“I’m the motherfucking mailman,” Jesse growled, then two things happened.

McCree pulled his trigger, and nothing happened, only a sort of _whunk_ noise like something jammed hard. The ganger pulled his trigger and a bullet passed close enough by Jesse’s head that he could feel the heat of it.

Without hesitation Jesse flipped Peacekeeper in his grip, spur in the handle jingling softly. With a roar he leapt onto the convict and brought his gun down on him, spur first. They fell in a tangle, Jesse on his chest and the other's arms scrabbling to stop the descent of Jesse’s gun.

It was messy, but the ganger could do nothing to stop his fate. Peacekeeper came down again and again, blood and gore flicking off her in arcs on the upswing. The last powder gangster stopped struggling, arms dropping off Jesse's scarred arm.

“Perfect fuckin time for a misfire of all fuckin times,” The courier snarled, shaking the worst of the gore off his revolver, “Let’s go, we’ll talk at the casino,”

The sheriff-to-be followed the mailman out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couriers mentioned:  
> Sue Wile Galloway/Six Guns Susie/Sue the ghoul belongs to [scuttlebuttin](http://scuttlebuttin.tumblr.com/)/[nikolaspascal](http://nikolaspascal.tumblr.com/) on tumblr (Sue is the best i love him)  
> Van Damme belongs to me (One day I'll write their wild ass ride through New Vegas, one day....)  
> Finch belongs to [capn-maes](http://capn-maes-art.tumblr.com/) on tumblr again (An excellent rowdy boy)
> 
> The song that plays is of course is [Roy Rogers - Don't Fence Me In](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WLoYFvbR0XY) (Sorry for poopy quality, youtube didn't wanna cough up a cleaner version that sounds like the one I have in my Fallout playlist :-( )
> 
> big thanks going out to everyone leaving kudos and comments, I'm so glad i have yall along for the ride and it's not just me yammering at length to some vacant end of the internet. Next chapter should see more overwatch heroes pop up, and of course more of Jesse's no good very bad mail delivery service.
> 
> hmu on [tumlr](http://dogfetus.tumblr.com/) if you want, and if you are possessed by the urge to show me something relating to this fic please tag it with my url and SAMIR AU on tunglr, I'll be keeping an eye on that tag as well as my username tag.
> 
> thanks for everything so far, I'll try to keep updates going steady


	4. axe handle pistol on a graveyard frame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for general Legionary scumbaggery and descriptions of corpses
> 
> chapter title from [Muddy Waters - I'm Ready](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LzZAJW2Sj3Q)

Meyers would agree to become Primm’s new sheriff, so long as the NCR could pardon him. Would be some hell of a sight to see the sheriff get arrested and thrown back in jail as soon as he took the title. A trek up to the Mojave Outpost should sort it easily enough.

Beagle is quick to dispense with what he knows. The man in the suit and his posse had looped down through Novac via Nipton, possibly stopping in at the town for a drink and some company before heading on to meet with their contact in Novac.

But first thing’s first, without Peacekeeper he’s down a weapon, and a varmint rifle won’t cut it forever. He checks her over, taking her apart at a blackjack table with practiced ease. Boss always said a man’s gun is only as good as the care that goes into maintaining her. That one needed no amendment. He takes bites of day old casserole between steps, washing it down with sips of lukewarm Sunset Sarsaparilla. Maybe not the best breakfast, but food is food.

There’s grit all through her, sandy grave dirt from where she was buried with him, gumming up as he waited by for him to wake again. The jam was easy to see; the spinning chamber’s rod was bent out a little, spinning lopsidedly and catching. She had powered through the gangers in the hotel easy enough, doing her job even when she was hurting, but there wasn’t a decent place to work anywhere in the Vikki and Vance. She'll just have to hurt for a little longer. 

He’s quick to put her together again, grumbling at the cylinder spins with a _clikclikclik_ , metal catching on metal. He’s just about to stand when a new project thumps down on the faded green felt. An eviscerated eyebot rolls in front of him, hefted up by Lindholm’s own mismatched hands.

“What’s all this then?” McCree slides Peacekeeper into her holster and crosses his arms, well as best he can when one is a clunky prosthetic and the other has a small computer strapped to it.

“Thought you could use some backup,” Torb beams, obviously not seeing that the eyebot he had just gifted his courier was not in any position to do much more than be a big fancy paperweight. Jesse looks it over, reaching out to hook a finger in the metal grate at it’s front and pulling it so it rolls down the table a ways.

“Got the parts for it?” he sighs and rolls the shell back in front of him, some backup would be nice, even better if he could get it for free. The short man nods and walks off again, soon returning with some scrap metal and a basket of electronics.

“Not sure if these are all of its parts, but there’s plenty in here to get it working again,” Great, a puzzle with no guide to go by, but the extra gun on his side wouldn’t hurt. Jesse scratched a hooked metal finger through his beard, then turned on his radio, a bright jingle with saxophone accompaniment playing out.

“I’ll get him to rights,” 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

\- - ♡♤♢♧ - - 

 

 

  

 

 

 

It had taken most of the morning, left arm hidden up in the slowly filling shell of the eyebot, but it was running initial diagnostics through a patched up cable attached to Jesse’s pipboy as he screwed the last plate into place.

He brushed a dirty thumb over the odd little tin sheet; Faded green background with a yellow bird in flight in the middle of it, set at an angle to cover the delicate electronics housed inside without cutting off the long unit number embossed beneath. _B45-T10 - mk.N._

“Bee, forty-five, tee ten, mark ehn,” he mumbled the code to himself, over and over as the eyebot whirred and started it’s initial startup.  
B45-T10 - mk.N, B45 T10 N, B45T10N. “Bastion, huh?” like a spell, the thruster lit and pushed the eyebot off the card table, singing the felt slightly as the cable pulled free.

He stabilized, a soft blue light brightening from behind the metal mesh plate. The stubby laser gatling gun attached to it’s underside gave a rev as it chirped and whistled, bobbing slightly where it hovered in the stale casino air.

“Bastion,” Jesse greeted his new companion with a tilt of his hat, “My name’s Jesse McCree, I think were gonna be good pals,” The eyebot chirped brightly, blue indicator blinking. He laughed, picking his bag and rifle up from where they leaned against the legs of his chair and slinging them onto his back. The diagnostic cable was coiled up and shoved into one of the many pockets of his duster, a bip from McCree’s pipboy signaling that the device had recognized it as part of his inventory now.

“Alright, I’m heading out Torb, I’ll be back with that pardon before nightfall,” Jesse hollered, unsure where Torbjorn was in the casino but sure that he would hear him, or at least one of his kids would and run and tell him, dang rugrats were everywhere.

Primm Slim was still waiting outside the door as Jesse left, servos whirring as he pivoted slowly to keep watch. There were bodies of dead gangers littered about, charred holes littering their forms from where Slim took them down in volleys of laser fire. The sun wasn’t high enough to make them stink just yet, but Jesse wouldn’t stick around long enough to smell the sun’s decay. He tipped his hat in farewell, Bastion beeped and burbled, and the two were off heading south towards the Mojave outpost. The morning was still warming up, leaving Jesse a little cold but in a far better walking mood. The song on the radio faded out softly, soon replaced with a familiar voice.

“Hello again, dear listeners,” There was something about Sombras voice that gave Jesse the distinct impression she was smiling like the cat that got the cream, ”I have some exciting news to share with you all. Turns out, around month ago a courier on their way to Vegas was shot dead by an unknown murderer. The weirdest part was just yesterday the courier in question got up again, seeming to of made a full recovery from a pretty certain death,” Cat that caught the cream indeed, Jesse did make quite the news break.

“That’s me she’s talking about,” he chuckled, glancing at Bastion. Why he felt the need to talk to a simple eyebot was beyond him, but at least it was better than acting like he wasn’t there. “The courier death forgot, or that was too stubborn to die, not sure which one sounds better,” Bastion offered a _wee-woo_ , not a solid answer but more like the eyebot wasn’t sure which one sounded better either.

“Well I for one know I hope I don’t meet this mailman in a dark alley, who knows what death left behind in that courier,” Sombra made a sort of _ooh_ noise like a ghost from a kid’s story would, then she laughed, “Anyways, enough gossip, here’s a favourite track of mine, a lil something that goes jingle, jangle, jingle,”

Jesse whooped happily, brassy sting nearly reducing the speaker’s output to static.

“Yippie yayyy.. They’ll be no weddin’ bells for today,” he couldn’t help but sing along, voice lower than Kay’s but just as capable of carrying the simple tune. With a spring in his step the walk to the outpost would take no time at all. “Cause I’ve got spurs, that jingle jangle jingle…”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

\- - ♡♤♢♧ - - 

 

 

 

Running wasn’t doing him any favours, but then again the radscorps that has caught his scent weren’t gonna give him any either.

“Shit shit shit,” Knees complained and thighs burned as he hoofed it up to where the road started to angle up, quickly hopping onto the hood and soon the roof of one of the wrecked vehicles. The varmint rifle came off his back and was slung up against his shoulder in a moment, sights settling on the beady black eyes of the nearest radscorpion before firing. Bastion hovered out of his line of sight, triple laser arrays spinning up quickly and dispensing hissing beams of red light, singing black charred holes through the scorpions’ blue-grey carapaces.

Between shot and sizzle, the pair blasted the oncoming scorpions to smithereens. Bastion gave a pleased trill at the last radscorp collapsed to the ground.

“Yeah that’s fuckin right, way to go lil buddy,” Jesse grinned as Bastion’s light flickered, floating past in a sort of bobbing pattern, like he was pleased with himself. He chuckled, slinging the rifle onto his back once again and hopping off the truck’s roof. He grunted when his bootheels hit the ground, the shock up his legs frigid and sharp, Bastion flew back to Jesse in the blink of an eye burbling and tweeting in a worried flurry.

“Woah there, slow down there pumpkin, I’m fine,” he took a step and grunted as another, lesser shot of pins and needles raced up his leg. Bastion beeped out a long _beewoooooo,_ note wavering like he was unsure. Jesse put on a brave face and forced his stiff legs forward, tamping down the uncomfortable tingling sensation as he strode along. “I’m fine, just gotta keep moving,” he wasn’t sure who he was convincing.

His pace slowed as the hill inclined, the rising sun making the trek that much worse. His hatband was tacky against his brow, every furrow of brow or buffet of wind making it drag uncomfortably against his scars. His arm felt just about ready to drop off, mean hooks for first and middle fingers sluggish as he tried to tug his canteen from his belt. There’s a meager sip left, Jesse savours it and swallows it down, trudging over to another rusted out vehicle shell and leaning against it. Bastion is quick to come over, short trill signaling his curiousness.

“Just taking a breather Bastion, I can’t fly along like you do,” He can feel sweat sticking his shirt and coat to his back, serape wrapped as loosely as possible, every possible crease and bend of his body soaked in sweat. The eyebot let out a disgruntled _blat_ , ducking in the air and scooting around behind the courier. With a whine, Bastions thrusters propelled him forward, pressing into Jesse’s shoulders and pushing him up off the car and nudging him back up the hill.

“Woah, woah I get it alright!” Jesse stumbled but was quick to regain his footing, stepping quickly as the eyebot propelled him up the hill with no signs of stopping. “Well, this ain’t too bad, you pushin’ me along, should there in no time,” Bastion gave a weary warble, punctuating his statement with another grumbly _blat_.

“Don’t be so glum chum, its either you help me up this hill, or we’re stuck on rough terrain until the Nightstalkers get us,” The half coyote, half snake beasties didn’t bother him none; Jesse stayed a respectable ways away from them at night, and they paid him no mind. But with his beeping, gun-toting friend tagging along the Nightstalkers might take a dangerous interest.

Bastion gave a wail, thrusters kicking up a whine as he pushed Jesse double-time up the hillside.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

\- - ♡♤♢♧ - - 

 

 

 

The door creaked open, sun casting Jesse in a sharp silhouette against the gloom of the squat building. Major Morrison is standing behind the counter, fingers drumming _taptaptaptap_ on its surface as he looks over the newcomer. Blue eyes glance over to the courier’s sweaty, smiling face. The scar over his lips tugs weirdly and the one that splits his brow wrinkle. Bastion warbles worriedly.

“Heya pops, got a favour to ask ya,” Jesse’s grin starts to border shit-eating as Morrison groans and screws his eyes shut.

“Jesse,” His voice is somehow childishly petulant while still a step lower than gargles-gravel-every-damn-morning rough. “Whatever you’re about to ask me the answer is no,” Bastion sighs, Jesse does too.

“Oh come on Morisson, like you even know what I’m gonna ask,” He’s quick to shoot back, pouting with hands on hips as Morrison crosses his arms, “And I know you’re still sore about it but that convoy idea wasn’t so bad, that cargo needed protecting!”

“You took good men through Cadazore country, they were in the infirmary at MacCarran hallucinating for weeks!” Morrison throws his arms in the air, glare boring into McCree’s head.

“It was a learning experience for them!” Jesse is quick to brush off the accusation with a huff, pulling his hat off and carefully scraping his claw-like metal fingers through his sweaty hair, flashing his scars. He didn’t have the time to be arguing over the pros and cons of stinging, flying insects versus some green NCR recruits.

“What happened to your head?” Morrison’s tone was a touch softer, worried. Jesse glances up and sure enough, Jack’s quickly built defenses are tumbling down again. He’s diverting the conversation all by himself; Jesse doesn’t even need to try.

“Oh this? This old thing? Pshaw nothing really, just sorta got shot a month ago and buried alive,” He smirks and jokes and plays the Major like a fiddle.

“You got shot, in the head, and lived,” He’s aghast, pale skin draining paler as his eyes bug out a little.

“Yeah, I got better,” and easy like cheating a half blind Caravan player, he makes his move, “M’gun Peacemaker suffered worse, spins a lil lopsided and I haven’t the place to fix her,” he leans in just a touch all honeyed smile and wide brown eyes, sliding Peacemaker across the scuffed desktop.

Morrison’s expression falls, like a bird diving from the sky to grab a snake.

“Jesse no, last time I fixed your gun Petras was breathing down my neck for weeks over the ‘lost’ parts,” he crosses his arms over his bulky chestplate again, “Unless you can pay I can’t help you,”

“It isn’t parts she needs, just a moment of your time to put her back straight, c’mon Jack,” now he’s whining, if he couldn’t get the help he needed here, next stop would be a little shack just south of Freeside and boss would not be happy to see the state he’s in. Slowly, Morrison caves, he huffs and glares but eventually he uncrosses his arms and snatches up the gun.

“I’ve been hearing some worrying news from a scout on the roof, say’s there’s smoke coming out of Nipton,” Deft hands are already taking Peacemaker apart as he instructs the courier. “Speak with her about specifics and see if you can get a closer look, your gun should be ready by the time you’re back,”

Bastion chimes happily and Jesse smiles.

“That I can do,” Pivoting on the spot he makes for the door, then pauses and peeks over his shoulder. "While yer at it, I've got a sheriff by the name of Meyers down in Primm looking for a pardon, could you sort that out for me maybe? Thanks Jack," With a quick, snappy salute he strolled out of the gloomy building and back into the blazing sun, pretending like he didn't hear Morrison heave a long-suffering sigh.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

\- - ♡♤♢♧ - - 

 

 

 

The walk up to Nipton is quiet, Jesse whistles a nonsense melody and kicks pebbles as he goes, Bastion burbles a musical accompaniment. His hip feels wrong without Peacemaker, but it’s a small price to pay. Maybe Owen just set of a fire and forgot to tend it, shouldn’t be anything too troublesome.

A joyous whoop startles the courier out of his thoughts. Barreling out of the main entrance to the little town a whip-thin boy with scraggly blonde hair and a peg leg, bounding along with surprising grace. He throws his arms into the air, one rather singed and grubby, the other a prosthetic all painted in a flaking safety orange.

“Oh smell that sweet free air!! Pearl never said I’d survive out ‘ere but look where she’s wrong!! Ha-ha!” Jesse snorts, slowing his pace a little as the peg-legged boy spins in a carefree circle on his prosthetic, still cackling. Bastion whistles lowly, wary like a nervous dog.

“Hey there,” Jesse calls once he’s within speaking distance, metal hand raised in a wave. The boy whips around with a startled look on his face before breaking into another wide grin.

“Well g’day to you wanderer,” His tone crests and drops with his words as he bounds the short distance between them. “Never thought I’d see another soul today but here you are and here I am! Doged death for another day, everything’s coming up Junkrat!”

“Er, alright then, I’d best leave you on yer way then,” Jesse sidestepped with a polite tilt of his hat

“Why thank you, say if you see anything that make a nice kaboom lyin’ around, leave it out for ol’Junkrat eh? What’s a Boomer without his booms!” He swings his arm up and around, prosthetic flashing in the sloppiest mimicry of a salute Jesse has ever seen before loping off back the way Jesse had come.

Weird kid, wonder what he got himself out of that has him in such a mood. A glance gives him an answer immediately. A gold bull on blood red, a pennant on a high staff flapping in a soft breeze, Cesear’s Legion. The courier grasps for his gun and finds nothing but thin air, his varmint rifle too heavy to swing around in case of a firefight.

No way out if they decide to exact bloody justice on his guilty soul. He swallows a knot of bile and steels himself. He had to check on Nipton, a deal is a deal for Jesse McCree. The street is quiet, too quiet. The little town was home to seedy bars and rowdy folk who thought the best time for drinks and debauchery was all the time. This cloying silence is entirely out of sorts.

And then he smells it. And then he knows.

Rounding a corner he sees them; legionaries in red and white all grouped down at the end of the dirt street, looming crosses lining either side. A bonfire smolders before the town hall with more crosses rising from the ashes, charred bodies held aloft by blackened rope.

Powder gangers stand tall on crosses of their own, some still moving, mumbling and whining, others unconscious. It would take longer to kill them, three days if the Mojave was merciful.

“What th’fuck?” The words slide out of McCree’s mouth, just a little too loud to remain unnoticed. A legionary wearing a wolf pelt for a hat turns, pinched betraying a hint of a smile. _God, the thing still has eyes and teeth, fuckin’ Legion weirdos._ Bastion chitters quietly and floats back, almost hiding behind Jesse's serape-covered shoulder.

“Don't worry, I won't have you lashed to a cross like the rest of these degenerates,” his voice was reedy and betrayed no emotion; it set the courier’s teeth on edge. “You’re more useful to the legion alive, Courier,”

“What did you do to this place? These were good people you killed,” Fury burned in his words. Nipton had offered him lodging and company many a time while he walked his deliveries to and fro, to see every living soul snuffed by legion powers turned his stomach.

“Good people?” He scoffed, “Nipton was brimming with whores, all eager to offer service as long as they paid, remedied by a lottery with dire winnings,”

“You set them up,” His boot scuffed the dirt as he stepped forward, hands itching to wring the legionnaire’s neck. “Killed ‘em all cause they’re hospitable types?” The dog-wearing legionary bristled, his cohorts leveling their rifles and handguns at Jesse. “Y’all think the Mojave is yours already since you managed to sneak past some NCR troops?” He didn’t care; the world had narrowed to him and the sneering legionary. They had no right to slaughter this town, no right to exact their law. The only law out here was the Mojave’s whims, not the desires of a man who called himself king.

“I would mind my tone if I were you, Courier, you may feel strongly about the Legion’s decision here but make no mistake, if you attack us, soon you won't feel a thing,” He smirked, pale fingers gently alighting on the hilt of his Ripper. “Look well upon the fates of profligates Courier, and when you leave, tell everyone you meet of what happened here, the Dam will fall as this town did and the profligates to the west will follow,” He turned, signaling his troop to move out, “I bid you _vale_ , until we meet again,” Quietly, Bastion bleep-blooped mockingly, _vale_ indeed. 

His head throbbed, howling rage swirling in his mind and barely kept at bay by the plate in his skull. Peacemaker or no, justice ain't gonna dispense itself.

“Wait,” McCree snarled the word. The troops continued their march but the leader stayed. Coyote brown eyes flashed under the brim of a shot up Stetson, meeting the black glass lenses that covered the legionary’s eyes. “Tell me your name, ‘fore you go,” _tell me your name and damn yourself you dog wearing sonovabitch._

“I am Vulpes Inculta, the greatest Frumentarii of Cesar’s Legion, and you?” Vulpes preened, shoulders back and sneering down the street at the scruffy mailman.

“McCree, Jesse McCree,” He brought a claw-fingered hand up, mean digits catching in the light as he tipped his hat. “I’ll be seeing you, Vulpes,” his words carried bleak gravitas, Vulpes's smirk wilted minutely before turning to hatch up with the rest of his group. JEsse was sure to bore holes in him with the intensity of his gaze alone. Once the Frumentarii was out of sight, Jesse sighed heavily.

Bastion bobbed up from behind the courier's shoulder and gave a nasty blat, a curse if Jesse ever heard one from the eyebot. 

Nipton was gone, the choice of safe lodging that wasn’t the bartop of the Prospector Saloon or a chaise lounge that left his feet hanging off the end in the Vikki and Vance now considerably limited. Flies buzzed in the quiet, weak breaths of dying powder gangers adding texture to the silence. Owen was dead, Paula was dead, Bertie was dead, Beru, Grant, Adawe, Filmore. Every friendly face he had known in this little honest scumbag town, dead.

"Yeah buddy," His tone was sour, sadness threataning to douse the flames in him but he couldn't let them, not just yet.

Jesse stood on Nipton’s empty main street, cold fury burning inside of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> suuuper sorry for such a big break between the third and fourth chapter, Halloween happened, I took a trip to see family, and my work is starting to pick up for Christmas so I'm coming home pretty tapped out. I'll try to keep updates as frequent as I can.
> 
> as always, please feel free to hit up my [tumlr](http://dogfetus.tumblr.com/) to get in touch with me.


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